The Short Ugly Woman Of Syrup

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I can't believe her.

Aunt Jemima with the fucking washrag tied around her head is on a mission. For some reason I am someone that she desperately needs to talk to her. Just like my ex-next door neighbor, Richie, who I haven't seen in a dog's age, who made it his personal imperative to make me his best, closest friend. These people don't realize that I don't make friends easy, and I don't make friends at all with Skeks.



Why not Skeks? Because Skeks are under the erroneous impression that the world owes them something. These fucks have never been thrown out of a loving home, and if they have, they've forgotten what it was like to have a roof over your head. You see, I thought companies cared about their employees, I thought bosses cared about their best workers, I thought wives cared about their husbands, I thought congressmen cared about their constituents, I thought senators cared about taxpayers, I thought this country cared about its people, I thought god cared about his worshipers.....I was so fucking WRONG!!!!



You see, what most don't realize and what Skeks take for granted, is that nobody cares. If you can swallow that sharp tack, you are on your way to self-realization. I'm not here preaching that there aren't exceptions to this rule. There could be wives and children that will give their lives for their husbands and fathers. There could be an honest senator or two in politics, there could be a foreman or a CEO that really feels for their workers. I'm saying DON'T DEPEND ON THIS SHIT. Don't think your boss will not lay you off or fire you without thinking twice. Don't think your wife will not divorce you or your kids will not disown you faster than take a dollar out of your pocket. Don't think that a senator won't sell you out, or that god won't forsake you, because you are being self delusional.



And that's what a Skek is. Self Delusional. They are under the impression that all of the above love them and owe them something. They are under the impression that if they need money, all they need to do is walk outside of the building and ask all passerby for change, and the love of New York city will lift them, and carry them on their shoulders, handing them a fortune so that they can go and get that bottle of muscatel, or whatever rotgut they are shoving in their arms, mouths, or noses.



A Skek has nothing and believes you are the source of everything, and Richie and Aunt Jemimah are no exception. They desperately need to be your friend because they desperately need something from you, and it is your responsibility to give it to them. However, unbeknownst to them, I HAVE NOTHING. Better yet, I DON'T WANT ANYTHING. I don't want to be bothered, I don't want fake friends, I don't want the press of humanity. I WANT to write. If you're a pen or a keyboard, then you and I have something in common. If not, then you are a very special person and I find you interesting. Bar that, and you are pushing it.



Aunt Jemima is in the elevator when I step in. I am wearing my headsets, thank god, turned up all the way. I see her lips move out of the corner of my eye, but I don't turn around. She continues to talk, on and on with just the two of us in the elevator, and when the door opens she waddles out, like a penguin, doing the Skeksie walk. I walk slowly behind her and leave to go pay my Internet bill. She heads out into the New York afternoon, hand out to the populace. I'm assuming that all that talk in the elevator was to question me if I had any spare change.



Returning, a half hour later, to the building, I enter the long corridor from the front door to the elevator. In transit, I see Paula with one of her crows and I welcome them and say good morning. This is a must do, because I'm already labeled anti-social by my neighbors, and if I were to need any assistance, like to have someone spit in my face if my teeth were on fire, they wouldn't render any. So, with all the strength that I can muster, I smile and say hello. This shouldn't be hard, but dealing with people has always been hard.



At the end of the hall, between the mailboxes and the elevator is Aunt Jemima, no doubt finishing her elevator surfing, being the number one culprit. On my way to the mailboxes her mouth is moving at a hundred miles an hour. I turn the corner, go to my box and open it, pulling out mail. She comes around the corner, still talking. I ignore her clearly. Not only that, I collect my mail in my arms, close my box and walk clean around her to get to the elevator on the other side of  her and press the button. Her mouth still running.



Finally, I turn and rest my back against the wall and look at her mouth running. I give a long pause, as if for a certainty I am not going to pull the ear buds out of my ears, but I finally relent when her mouth stops flapping.

WHAT? I ask her harshly.

"Do you know what date it is?" She replies.


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